Our Romans 8:28 Day

June 5, 2012 By 6 Comments

I laid on a gurney, in just a thin hospital gown and big huge socks that were to ward off blood clots, the scariest part of surgery it seemed, waiting to be taken back. Waiting for the surgery that we hoped and prayed would restore my fertility. The memories of that day, now three years old, are fuzzy. The rounded corners soft. But I remember my husband standing beside me, and I remember the nurse’s kind eyes. How she held my hand when she told me that something came back in my blood work. The way the words sounded when she formed them—“You’re pregnant.”

I got up off that gurney and walked out of that hospital with life beating in the very place they were planning to invade.

That afternoon, when I should have been recovering in a downtown hospital bed, we waded in the lake while our dogs splashed about and I said to my husband, again and again the words I thought I’d never get to say, “I’m pregnant.”

It was over as quickly as it began, but those days taste sweet to me now. Oh what a gift to have it, for even just a moment.

Those June days in 2009 are marked on a map in my memory.

That weekend, after the end began, we walked to a local festival, and on the way there, I saw one perfect blooming pink peony. I snapped a picture of it, and I knew even then, as I lost our one and only pregnancy that He was at work. That He had to be.

164: A Peony

In that flower, in its pink unfolding life, I was reminded that my God is a good God. He’s a mighty God. He’s promised that He works all things for good for those who are called according to His purposes.

And He did.

This weekend we’ll attend that festival again, only this time I’ll carry an 18-month-old toddler on my back. We’ll wave at the parade goers and we’ll share cheese curds and our sweet boy will pet baby animals.

Trusting God to build our family; having to rely completely on Him, because I am physically unable to do it any other way, has been hard. My womb is very literally shut; sealed up by scar tissue. But better my womb than my heart.

A few weeks ago, one perfect deep red peony bloomed in our front yard.

Keep trusting Me, He whispers. I am still working.

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And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose, Romans 8:28. (NIV)

 
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Midweek Confessions: A Real One

April 11, 2012 By 10 Comments

Shortly after I moved to Minnesota, I dropped my basket.

I didn’t write about it here, or anywhere really, because I was embarrassed. Here I was finally married, and I was so sad and lonely.

What made it even harder is that I really loved being married. I loved finally being with Aaron all the time. To building something real with him.

But I was in no way prepared for how much my life would change.

I try to not look at my Atlanta life through rose-colored glasses, but the reality is, I had a really (really) wonderful life. I was genuinely happy almost all of the time. Meeting Aaron just intensified that, and I was so excited to be married and be with him.

And while we thought about our marriage and not just our wedding—went to pre-marital sessions and asked the hard questions—what I didn’t give enough heart-prep to was what it would be like to leave behind everything else.

I went from a little 2-bedroom house that I rambled around in with my two dogs, a few miles from one of my best friends, and a short 20-minute back road commute to a job where I was valued and appreciated; close, loving friendships; an active volunteering schedule; and a church community that was my heart’s home to … none of that.

Between planning a wedding and packing up my entire house (and figuring out what to do with said house in a horrible real estate market), being in a long-distance relationship, and just living my daily life, I hardly let myself think about the fact that once I went to Florida, I wasn’t coming back home. I wasn’t going to be living there anymore. I wouldn’t be able to drive over to Sarah’s house during a scary storm, or go watch Adam trick-or-treat, or see Allison sing.

We went to Florida, all my friends and my family and my fiancee, and Aaron and I got married, and the next day we hung out at the pool and there were my Ohio friends and my Atlanta friends, and I realized that this was it. It wasn’t just my out-of-town guests that I was going to have to say goodbye to.

Aaron and I had a little mini-moon at the resort where we were married before driving back to Atlanta to pack up my house. We then made the drive north, through Ohio so that I could say goodbye to my dying grandmother, and on to my new state.

We arrived late on a Sunday night to the little basement apartment he’d be renting in his childhood home. We were to move to the upstairs, as soon as I could clean it and unpack. The very next day he went back to work, and there I was. A new wife in a little house way out of the country, with only dogs to talk to. I spent weeks turning that little house into our first home, cleaning like I’d never cleaned before.

It was beautiful, oh so beautiful. I tried to think of the pioneers who’d left behind everything to settle this land. But it was so hard.

About a month later I started a new job, and it was an hour drive each way. And as it turned out, my new job, where I was one of three employees in a little office building way out in a western suburb, was a very bad fit. (Very bad.)

Minnesotans are a strange breed. People here are friendly; it’s the land of Minnesota Nice, after all. But friendly in the sense that they’ll wave to you on the sidewalk and chat you up in the line at Caribou, but they don’t really want to be your friend. They have friends, thanks. They met in kindergarten. Their friend card is all full up.

I was in Atlanta for a hot minute before I had lifelong friendships. I walked into that city and was enveloped into a friend circle that I will likely never replicate.

Becoming a Minnesotan can be a lonely road.

So with all the change — new marriage, death of my last grandparent, a new house, a new job, new pets even — I got lost for awhile. And very sad.

I had to dig my way out, and I had to pray a lot (a lot) for deliverance. To be delivered from a job and situation that was crushing my spirit to something better. And for God to bring people in my life to be a true community to me. Turns out that there was one solution that was an answer to both.

Once we found a church to call home things got much better much faster. (And it would eventually lead me to a new job and new friends.)

At Harry’s first birthday party last November Aaron’s cousin asked, after not recognizing many of the people in the room, who everyone was. “My friends,” I told her. And it was a gift of a moment, straight from the Giver.

And I see now that those days drew Aaron and I closer together. Everything else was stripped away. We were starting a new life together in a very tangible way. I was hard on him in ways I deeply regret; expecting him to somehow magically replace everything else that I’d left behind.

And I was hard on myself. I didn’t give myself enough grace.

I thought of Ruth; did she whine and cry to Naomi that she missed her family, her home? No. Did she self medicate with Dairy Queen Buster Bars? No. After all, this was my choice. And I made it willingly and happily. It was what I wanted. But it was still okay for me to grieve my old life, and I should’ve let myself do it well; do it better. Do it with grace.

Instead I just thought that I was broken.

But it had to have been hard for Ruth. It’s not easy to go, even when you know you’re supposed to. It’s never easy. But Ruth was faithful, and God blessed her. Looking around now, almost four years later, it’s clear to me how He has blessed me too.

But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God,” Ruth 1:16. 

 
Filed Under: Married Life Tagged With: ,

Motherhood Is Not The Cure

January 24, 2012 By 10 Comments

One of the things that surprised me after becoming a mother was that I thought that all of the pain and longing that I experienced during our wait and during our struggle with infertility would vanish overnight. And I was unpleasantly surprised to discover that’s not the case.

Don’t get me wrong, a lot of pain was smoothed over once I crossed that invisible line between woman and mother.

But sometimes it takes me by a little bit of a shock.

It’s little things. Like when I’m on what I think is a message board for moms about parenting and the questions revolve around birth or conception.

It’s little moments when I see women who have children the same age as Harry and they’re expecting their next baby and that little green monster comes back up and I think “Why is it so hard for us? Why is this disease so unfair?”

And I think again and again of the tornado. It does not seek you out maliciously or purposefully. It strikes at random. And you don’t know what that’s like and you can never know what it’s like until the tornado comes for you.

There are things that have softened in me though. I used to not understand why women who suffered from secondary infertility couldn’t at least satsified with the child that they did have.

But I know now when you have a longing in you for children—whether it’s for your first child or your third child or your fifth child—when that longing is placed in you, nothing can placate it.

There is no fix for it. No cure for it. Your other children’s purpose in your life or your love for them is not in any way reflected in that longing.

You can still long for children even when you have them.

That is something i only learned on this side of that line.

And as we start to plan for extending our family, a lot of the pains I had to go through before Harry came home, I’m having to address again. Things like jealously. And bitterness. Things that if I don’t keep them in check, I’ll allow to grow in me.

And the thing about jealously and bitterness is they’ll choke the joy right out of your life. I don’t ever want the joy that I feel every day over being Harry’s mom to be choked out by bitterness over what I didn’t get to experience.

I’ll never know first hand the miracle of birth. For someone like me who watches home birth videos for fun; who is captivated and amazed by birth, it’s hard.

And when Harry was small those things were easier, but now that we are here again—getting ready to wait, getting ready to wonder when it will be our turn—it’s hard again.

The reprieve that I had in that first year of his life was lifted and it was lifted in almost what feels like a second.

When Harry came home I made myself a silent promise that I was not going to even think about or ponder or consider growing our family until he was a year old. Because I knew, from knowing myself for 34 years at that point, that I simply could not entertain those thoughts or I would miss it. I would miss the joy and the wonder of his first year. And I waited so long to be his mom that I wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

And there it was, mid-November, he was a  year old and—zoom—all of it back. Suddenly. When were we going to have another baby? When was our family going to grow? What were we going to do?

And being infertile is life long. It’s always there. It’s always on my mind. I’m always thinking about it. But it’s in the same way that I am always aware that I’m female. I’m always aware of my height. Of my age. It’s just part of who I am. It’s not something that plagues me, it’s just something that I am. And I think that makes people uncomfortable sometimes. But you know, that’s okay.

The only thing that can comfort me—the only thing that can save me—is Jesus.

There is no cure for this other than Christ. He won’t suddenly make me fertile and He won’t suddenly give me more children just because I want them. But what He will do is He’ll fill the cracks in my heart. And He’ll fill the empty spaces in my life and He’ll fill the empty longing in my arms.

And if I trust Him to do those things— if I allow Him to do those things —He will do them. And not only will He do them, He will do them with great joy and with great joy that I’ve asked, because that’s what He wants to do for us. He wants to invade the cracks in our lives and fill them with His love, His comfort, His presence and His strength.

If you’re hurting and lonely, if your arms are heavy with emptiness, I have to promise you that if you will just call on Him, He will fill them. He will comfort you, and you will be able to stand in the middle of the tornado, winds swirling around you, and your feet will remain firmly planted on the ground.

 
Filed Under: Making a Family Tagged With: , ,

Across the River (And Other Thoughts on a Sunday)

September 25, 2011 By 6 Comments

It’s been so long since I’ve just sat down and written anything here. Just written. Just said whatever it was that I wanted to say in that moment.

Most of the time, thoughts come to me at night right before I go to bed, but I let them go, because I’m tired. (There is always more to be done than can get done.)

But I have been thinking, a lot, almost every day, what it is like to be on this side of the river, delivered to the land for which I prayed.

The problem with being on this side of the river is that it’s filled with the business of living, which leaves less time for reflection.

Because all of a sudden you’re married or you’re parenting or you’re working hard at that job you longed for or you are studying at the school you worked hard and prayed fervently to be able to attend.

The thing about being delivered is that it happens in an instant. One day I was single and the next day, there he was. Just a guy I met at the dog park.

One day we were childless; waiting and preparing. The next day, our son was born and we journeyed across the country to get to him.

Those are the stories that I wish I could go back in time and tell to myself.

How frustrated God must have been with me at times (if God gets frustrated, which maybe he doesn’t?) when I cried and whined and felt persecuted. When will it be my turn??  I so often asked.

I bet He shook His head and said, “Johanna, I am working. It is coming. It will be worth the wait. Would I give you anything less?”

And that’s what I want you to know: God cannot give you a bad gift. If evil fathers give their children bread, rather than the snakes and scorpions they perhaps deserve, HOW MUCH MORE will God give you when you ask him for something? (Matthew 7)

If you are still waiting. If you are still in the desert. Your river crossing is coming. It may take a wild act of faith (step into the rushing river, Joshua!), but you will cross that river. The land on the other side may not look how you imagined or even wished for, but there is land on the other side of that river, and it is filled with the exact thing that you need. And it will be good.

Even thought we are now parents—I am now someone’s mother—I feel like our story is still being written.

Our house is not full yet.

My friend Amy, a prayer warrior if there ever was one, e-mailed me a few months ago to tell me she was already praying for the continued building of our family. She said, I’m not sure if you’re ready for more kids, but I am calling out for them!

He settles the barren woman in her home, the happy mother of children (Psalm 113:9).

I see a house bursting with children. Harry a big brother to many. Can you imagine?

We may be old. We may have gotten started later. We may still have little ones when most of our friends are sending their kids off to college.

I don’t know.

I can’t see everything, but I see a glimpse.

I am trusting Him to write our story, because why wouldn’t I? Look at what He has written so far!

Jesus saved me, the worst of all sinners, so that you would see what He says and what He has done is TRUE. (1 Tim 1:16, paraphrase).

I don’t know what your story looks like or what you are waiting for.

I know that life is terribly hard. This world that we live in is mightily unfair.

But He longs for you, sisters. His heart breaks for you. He wants you desperately.

A few months ago, a member of our church lost her baby at 15 weeks gestation. It was her second loss; her first was also born too early and in between her two angels she gave birth to two more sons.

They held a short memorial service to remember their fourth baby, and the pastor told the story she’d relayed to him after she’d lost their first baby, before she was a believer.

She said that she related to the analogy of Jesus being a shepherd, because of one of the ways a shepherd draws his sheep.

The reason we often see shepherds holding baby lambs over their shoulders is because the sheep will follow wherever their babies go. So when the shepherd wants to move the flock, he wraps a baby around his neck, and the flock follows. She said that when they lost Aiden, it was as if Jesus gathered up her baby, placed him on His shoulders and took him to heaven.

“And I followed,” she said.

I don’t know what pain you are suffering today, but I know what if you trust Him with it, He will redeem it.

I want you to remember that we are already more than conquerors.

 
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Restoring Me

September 14, 2011 By 4 Comments

dippy1

Jen Hatmaker’s most recent blog post, After the Airport, has been making the rounds on Facebook.

It is an honest look at the hard, beautiful work of parenting after the “Gotcha Day.”

I couldn’t personally relate to most of it, because that is not our adoption story.

There are the obvious differences in our stories in that one, our son is still an infant, so most of the parenting that is required of us is maybe not easy, but is simple; and two that I have never borne children. I do not know, and will likely never know, if feels differently to parent a child you birthed versus one whose was birthed to you.

But what did resonate, where I did see our story, is where it intersects with the cross.

Jen wrote:

I followed a God into this story who heals and redeems, who restores wasted years and mends broken places. This God specializes in the Destroyed. I’ve seen it. I’ve been a part of it. I have His ancient Word that tells of it. I love a Jesus who made reconciliation his whole mission. My children will not remain broken. They are loved by too good a Savior. I will not remain exhausted and spent. I am loved by too merciful a Father.

In early June I heard Gabe Lyons talk about how the Gospel story is a bigger story that we often see.

How the big picture is a story of not just the Fall and Redemption, but also of Creation and Restoration; and how Christ’s work on the cross is not just for what will be in eternity, it was also done for what can be here. On Earth. And what can be done here is restorative work. Turning what is broken into the whole thing that He created it to be.

And ever since I heard him talk about that, thoughts about how that idea relates to infertility and adoption, how the Gospel is mirrored in them, have been crackling away in my brain.

When God created the world, he created it so that every mama could bear children and every baby would stay with his mama. Be fruitful; multiply. Be a family, He instructed them.

But we don’t live in the Garden anymore. We are outside its gates.

And in this world, bodies are broken. Not every mama can be fruitful.

And for reasons that are too personal, too individual, too more to try to categorize, not every baby can stay with the mama who bears him.

But adoption. Adoption redeems the broken and it restores.

But it is only because of the cross. The cross is redemption. It made wrong right. And ever since that day, God has been in the business of restoration. He is restoring us back to how He created the world. Because of the cross, because of adoption, I have been restored to motherhood. To the role for which I was created. Adoption, the gift of grafting in what was not to what now is, is restorative work. Not just of the spiritual, me a sinner grafted into God’s family with the rights of an heir, but of the earthly as well. Because Christ went to the cross, I can be restored to the position of mother.

When I think of Harry or write about him, I feel like I should be spinning in a field on top of a mountain. My story sometimes feels as impossible as Fraulein Maria’s, but true both our stories are.

And yet. I don’t want to mislead. Adoption begins with loss. And is a mistake to pretend otherwise; to not recognize it, mourn it and heal from it.

I can see that our infertility has been redeemed in the gift of life that is our son. Harry’s very life is redemption.

And while I see our restoration, mine and Aaron’s, I can’t yet see more. Yet.

At 10 months old, most of Harry’s story is still unwritten. And I can’t tell you how He is working in Harry’s birthparents’ lives.

But I know that He is working.

Because I know Who is writing their stories. And I can tell you that there is restoration at work, because that is the God I serve. He is Redeemer. He is Restorer. That is who He is.

I am so thankful.

 
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